Love Will Conquer
by Secret Account 11
Summary: When John visits Sherlock to give him news on a marriage proposal, he realizes his partner is acting abnormal. Both men begin to question their feelings for the other, and John's distress leads to a sudden light being shed on the situation. Sherlock takes this as an advantage. SherlockxJohn pairing.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This is a SherlockxJohn story based off of the 2009 Sherlock Holmes movie. It is meant to take place sometime before the movie- or around the beginning of the movie. And this is also meant to suggest SherlockxJohn as a pairing. If you are offended by that, please do not read this, then. Thanks! :)

He stared up at the ceiling of his room, the flickering light from a nearby candle casting a series of shadows over the level surface. Other than the tiny lick of fire on the wick, the room was completely dark and it was indistinguishable whether or not it was day or night. Heavy curtains covered all the windows that would allow any light to stream in- the atmosphere was exactly how Sherlock liked it.

The detective was resting on his back, arms folded behind his head. His pipe was laying precariously on his chest, signifying that at one point in time, he had been smoking it and had let it fall from his mouth. He had had no case at all for several days- perhaps even weeks, for the hours seemed to have run together. To Sherlock Holmes, that gave him every reason to simply lay around and do nothing.

He didn't count how many times he searched through the same newspaper for something interesting, or how many times he tried to entertain himself with his own thoughts. The man didn't know how people did it; how did they go through their life without anything to solve- without anything to stimulate their brains? For the sake of experimentation, Sherlock had even tried the whole "nostalgia" thing and thought over his life. However, he was far too advanced for something as silly as that to entertain him. Perhaps people were right about him; maybe he literally had no emotion.

When a light tapping sounded on the door to his "cave," Sherlock didn't even jolt or look remotely surprised. Without even an invitation, the door swung open and the vibration of footsteps traveled through the floor and into the man's muscles. He didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Good evening, Watson," Sherlock greeted, deep brown gaze still locked onto the ceiling painted with the orange glow of the candle.

"It's morning, Holmes," came the bleak reply of one John Watson.

When Sherlock's ears picked up the sound of John's feet fading off toward the other side of the room, he suddenly lifted his head. "Please don't do tha-" He let out a startled yell when the doctor swiftly flung the curtains back and allowed bright light to stream into the originally dark area. Sherlock slapped a hand over his eyes with an irritated moan. "You aren't very gentle with these things, Watson. Were you trying to blind me?"

"How long have you been laying there?" John asked, completely disregarding what his friend had just said to him.

Sherlock was silent for a few moments, taking the time to let his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. Once he was sure it'd be okay to remove the shade over his face, he brought his hands to his chest and folded them there neatly. "Not sure. What day is it?"

"Friday."

"And when did I last see you, Watson?"

"Tuesday night."

"Hmm... that means I've been here for a good two days. Imagine that."

John strolled back over to his friend and leaned up against a wall, one hand resting on his cane. "You do realize you're on the floor...?"

"Yes. Good Lord, man- I think I can distinguish the difference between the cushion of a bed and the hardness of a floor."

"Very well. Should I be asking what you're doing?"

"Are you going to remove your hat? You're inside, now."

To most people, some perplexed expression would immediately cross their face at the fact that Sherlock knew what they were wearing without even looking at them. However, for John Watson, he was quite used to it, and without even a second thought, he plucked his hat from his head and rested it on a nearby table. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Laying."

"Yes, I can see that. Why?"

"Because I didn't feel like standing. Are you done asking ridiculous questions?"

John released a sigh and tilted his head back with slight frustration. "Nevermind, then. I came to talk to you about something."

"Naturally."

"Y'know that girl I've been seeing- Mary?"

"I can't say I _know_ her, but I recall you mentioning her a few times."

"Yes, well, the few times that I've asked you to come meet her, you've refused to."

"I try to avoid meeting people who I know won't affect my life in any drastic way. It's a waste of time."

"So is laying there in the middle of the floor and staring at the ceiling," John commented with a raised brow. "That's not the point, though. You're going to have to meet her soon; I'm asking her to marry me."

Throughout the entire conversation, Sherlock's expression hadn't changed in the slightest- at least not until John's last words. For a brief moment after the announcement, his eyes widened and his lips parted in shock. He adjusted his hands stiffly, then lightly cleared his throat.

"Is that so? Why are you telling _me_ this?"

"I don't know... maybe because it's a bit of a big deal?" John exclaimed in astonishment at his friend's disinterest. "You're a friend of mine; I figured you'd at least care a _bit_." Then again, this _was_ Sherlock Holmes he was talking to. He should've expected that the detective wouldn't be at all fascinated in something as personal (or emotional, for that matter) as a marriage proposal.

Sherlock's brows furrowed and he sat upright, draping his arm over one raised knee. He spun his torso around to look up at the doctor quizzically. "Watson... I've apparently been laying here for two days straight, completely bored, and you come here thinking that this news of yours will intrigue me?"

John's eyes dropped to the ground and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Yeah, I guess I forgot who I was talking to for a moment," he murmured, then raised his voice to directly address the man on the floor. "Either way, I was hoping you'd be my best man for the wedding."

"Are you sure she'll actually say yes to you? I mean, what sort of qualities do you have that a woman wants?"

"Holmes..."

"You have no sense of humor, you're a complete bore, you're not exactly soft on the eyes," Sherlock listed off nonchalantly, counting his fingers for each trait mentioned. "Ah, well.. you _are_ a doctor, I suppose. She probably thinks you're rich then-"

"Holmes!" John called again, this time sternly.

"Hm?"

"Will you be my best man or not?"

"It depends on when the wedding is," Sherlock murmured and leaned back against a nearby desk. "If I have some case to be working on that day, then I won't be able to make it."

"That's ridiculous, Sherlock! You usually don't know if you'll be busy on some case until that same day- or the night before!"

"Oh! I guess you're right. That's a shame. You might want to find a back-up plan in case that happens. Or, perhaps I'm not the best option, either way," the detective said with a careless shrug.

John released an irritated sigh and brought a hand up to his forehead. "Sherlock- can't you manage to take a single day off for a wedding? And it's not like the wedding will last all day, either. I think you can spare an hour or two."

"What does a 'best man' do, anyway? I believe the proper protocol is to plan a 'bachelor party' of some sort, am I right?"

"That's usually how it goes, but I wouldn't want to be too much trouble for you or anything," John scoffed with a roll of his eyes.

"It's not like the actually party would be difficult," Sherlock commented, then rose to his feet with a look of mock thoughtfulness in the direction of the open window. "I just don't know who I'd invite. You don't have many friends, do you?"

"I'm sure I have plenty more than you do."

"Don't be mean, Watson. Attitude won't get you anywhere."

"I think I have every right to show some attitude after all I've had to put up with," the doctor replied, raising his chin slightly when he saw a look of bewilderment come from his friend. "I don't ever complain about your odd habits that annoy me. I deserve the chance to speak my mind after all I've had to go through with you. For Heaven's sake; you kill my dog pretty much every other day!"

"Now, that doesn't do any real harm to Gladstone. Would you rather I experiment on you?"

"That... what? No," John replied hastily, casting a cautious look toward Sherlock to make sure he was just kidding. "Whatever- we're off-topic again. Are you going to be my best man?"

"Why do you want to marry her, John?" came the detective's response, one brow raised.

"What kind of question is that?" By this point, the man was extremely agitated. He straightened up and began pacing around the room, lips pursed.

"A legitimate one."

"Look, Holmes- it's the reason any man wants to marry a woman. She's smart, funny... has a nice personality."

"Pretty?"

"Yes, of course," he sighed and looked at Sherlock with a sudden gentleness in his gaze. "When you fall in love with someone, of course you find them beautiful..."

Sherlock raised his eyes slowly, allowing them to lock with the doctor's. He kept a steady stare and didn't falter in the slightest bit, mesmerized by the other man's cerulean orbs for that small moment. It was John who finally released a small grunt and tugged his gaze away, returning to his initial pacing, but this time far more leisurely.

"So," Sherlock murmured with an awkward clearing of his throat, "you're completely sure with this choice, then?"

Even after a slight hesitation, John replied, "Yes, I'm sure."

Without a moment's pause, Sherlock immediately straightened up and advanced toward his colleague. When he neared him, he placed a hand heavily on his shoulder and dipped his chin. "Very well." Then, the man continued forward, nearing the window that John had so mercilessly uncovered. "Is that all you came to talk to me about?" he called over his shoulder and came to a halt to look out over the landscape beyond 221B Baker Street.

"Well... I figure I should also tell you that once I'm married, I won't be helping out with any other cases of yours," John said and slowly turned around to face the back of Sherlock. "I'll be concentrating on Mary and having a family. These cases get dangerous, and I don't want her worrying about me."

Complete silence came as the initial response. Sherlock's head hung for a moment and he placed one arm on the window in order to lean up against it. The man could hear his heart beating in his ears, sudden pain clawing at his stomach. His entire body began to sting and he had no logical explanation as to why. When he finally spoke, his mouth was dry and his words came out in a quiet rasp. "I see... so you're going to settle down..."

"Yeah, that's the idea. I'm assuming whatever case shows up next will be the last."

An expression of emotional pain crossed Sherlock's face, but it was quickly wiped away when he spun around to look at John again. "Well, always a pleasure working with you, Watson," he curtly replied and swiftly shuffled off toward his desk to pretend to be busy with something else.

"Holmes?" John softly called, then began to walk toward him with a look of concern. "Are you okay?"

"What?" Sherlock roughly barked and glanced at his colleague as though he was insane. "Don't be absurd. Of course I'm fine."

"You've gotten rather active over these past few minutes."

"Well, I've been particularly _in_active for the past couple of days-"

"I see what's going on here..."

"What?"

"You don't want me to leave, do you?" John asked, a sudden smile playing across his lips. "You actually _enjoy_ having me as your partner- you enjoy it more than you dare to show."

In the middle of shuffling through the same newspaper again, Sherlock paused and stared blankly at one of the pages. He felt his entire body stiffen, but kept as calm as possible with his response. "I suppose it's... _convenient_ to have a partner helping out with things," the man muttered, not daring to look over at John. "It certainly gets the job done quicker."

"Oh, I see," John smirked with an unconvinced look. "I'm just a mere source of _convenience _for you."

The detective shrugged and proceeded in flipping through the old paper. "Yes, you're rather helpful, Watson."

"For God's sake, Holmes," came the exasperated response. "Are you really so stubborn that you can't even admit it when you consider someone a friend?"

"No," Sherlock firmly stated with furrowed brows. "Very well- you're a _friend_ of mine, Watson. Does that please you?"

"Yes, thank you very much." John sighed and returned to leaning up against the wall. He looked at his companion thoughtfully, hands once again in his pockets.

"Would you stop? I can't think."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, well, you're staring at me and it's very distracting."

"My deepest apologies," John said sarcastically before straightening and snatching his hat off of the desk. The doctor plopped it firmly on his head and spun around to leave. As he neared the door, he cast a glance over his shoulder, hoping to get some sort of 'farewell' from his friend. However, when Sherlock didn't so much as stir, he exhaled loudly and flung the door open.

"Watson-"

Perhaps John had halted and turned back a bit too hastily. "Yeah?"

"I'll be your best man."

A smile pulled at the doctor's lips and he dipped his head. "Thank you, Sherlock."

The other man didn't reply, but raised his gaze to look over at John. His mouth formed a line before he nodded slowly and allowed his shoulders to rise and fall in a shrug. Only keen ears would pick up the tiny murmur of approval that came as a response, but it was clear that John understood without hearing it. He brought one hand up to his hat to tip it formally, then disappeared through the door after mustering a quick "good-bye."

It was only when Sherlock's ears picked up the sound of the door clicking shut that he raised his head completely. He haphazardly tossed the old newspaper aside, then suddenly struck a nearby chair with a violent kick. The man began to pace rapidly around the room, running his hands through his already messy hair and gritting his teeth. _Why_ was he this upset about the whole thing? Or, the better question: _was_ he even upset? Sherlock Holmes never had to deal with much emotion- at least not to this extreme. He was going through so much internal conflict that he couldn't even think logically. _What _were these emotions? Panic? Frustration? _Jealousy?_ But, why was he even jealous at all?

If the detective had been in his right mind, he would've easily figured out that his colleague had not left. He was _Sherlock Holmes,_ for God's sake. It would've been extremely obvious that John Watson hadn't taken any other steps forward after leaving the room. In fact, it would've been even more obvious that he was leaning up against the door the entire time, for the slightest rattle of the hinges would catch almost anyone's attention. But, since Sherlock in fact _wasn't_ in his right mind, it was easy for the doctor to get away with it.

John stood directly outside of the room, back pressed up against the door and head tilted to one side. He listened in breathless silence to the sound of Sherlock's loud footsteps across the wooden floor. The doctor knew from the moment he mentioned his idea of marriage that Sherlock wouldn't take it well- but he never expected that it'd be taken _this_ badly. In all honesty, he had planned to stay a bit longer just to have some sort of conversation with his best friend. Since Holmes had been cooped up in his room for two days straight, he figured taking him out to lunch would be good for him. Sherlock was usually up for a decent meal when asked.

"I should've just mentioned the proposal after taking him out," John whispered under his breath. He removed his hat to run a hand over his head, then let out an exasperated sigh. Sherlock appeared to be perfectly fine until John had brought up that subject, then the rest of the visit just fell apart. Even though the detective attempted to keep a cool demeanor throughout the entire conversation, John was no fool. He instantly felt the discomfort in the atmosphere as soon as the topic was introduced, and Sherlock's behavior proved that the man was rather flustered. Contrary to belief, Sherlock Holmes _did_ have emotion; John was sure of it. As much as the stoic detective didn't want to admit it, it was clear that he valued Dr. Watson as a friend- perhaps as his only friend. Not many other people gave Holmes a chance.

_Jealousy... but I'm _not _jealous. Why would I be? _Sherlock had one hand placed on his forhead, thumb rubbing fervently at his temple while he trekked in circles around the room. Out of all cases the man had solved in his life, why was something as small as this such a big point of confusion for him? Were emotions really this puzzling and painful? If so, then perhaps it was a good thing that Sherlock had avoided them for so long. He'd never be able to think properly if he had permitted himself to succumb to such feelings. Now that he was actually allowing the emotions in, there was no turning back. The proud man was well on his way to becoming a complete wreck, and it was all because of one John Watson.

After several minutes of tenacious pacing, Sherlock finally came to a halt at his desk. He pressed the weight of himself down upon it, leaning forward on his outstretched arms and arching his back. "Very well... I'm jealous," the detective commented softly to himself. A deep sigh broke through his lips and he stood upright. "_Why?_" It was maddening- almost to the point where Sherlock felt himself literally going insane. He could figure out the minds of criminals in a heartbeat; why was figuring _himself_ out so much more difficult?

The entire conversation was repeating in lapses through the detective's brain, but no matter how many times he thought it over, he could make no conclusion. He had no explanation as to why he was so torn up over the marriage- over losing John as a partner. John Watson... did the doctor really mean _that_ much to Sherlock? He hadn't realized it until now, but just the thought of working without John sent a feverish wave over him. Sherlock couldn't- no, wouldn't- live without him.

With a loud exhale, Sherlock spun on his heel and took a few steps forward. His attention flashed toward the door for brief moment before he bent down and returned to his inital position on the ground. He tucked his arms under his head, eyes locked on the ivory ceiling. This was turning out to be Sherlock Holmes most difficult case yet. He had to figure out just what he was feeling for his friend. Then, an even more challenging situation would arise. He'd have to tell him.

Once the footsteps had come to a stop and silence followed, John became well-aware that he had definitely worn out his welcome. However, when he tried to take a single step forward, his legs felt like nothing but lead. The doctor couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. A force was holding him back, and for a small moment, he considered returning to the other side of the door. Something was terribly wrong with his companion, and a feeling deep within John was telling him to comfort the flustered detective. He almost felt _obligated_ to- like it was his job. But, it was a job he _enjoyed. _Out of all people in his life, Sherlock was one that he always wanted to be there for. Perhaps it was because Sherlock had no one else; maybe John just pitied him.

But, then again, maybe it wasn't pity. Up until now, John had never thought about it, but perhaps he felt a bit more for Sherlock than just a simple friendship. He certainly had never felt this way about any of his other friends. In fact, when it came down to it, Dr. Watson knew that he'd go as far as risking his life to save Sherlock. Did that mean something? Just strong friendship... or _something else?_

John's brows furrowed at the thought, but he hastily replaced his hat on his head and straightened up again. After casting one last glance back, the man began to descend the steps back to the first floor. As he walked, his mind continued to wheel with his sudden suspicions, and everything seemed to turn far more confusing than before. What exactly _did_ he feel for Sherlock, and if it was more then just partnership, how would he even go about announcing it? Either way, the moment would come when he'd have to tell him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Hey everyone~  
>I got such nice reviews on the first chapter of this story asking me to write more that I finally gave in and did so. =) This chapter isn't really as good as I wanted it to be, but I still hope you find it at least half as enjoyable as the first chapter. ^^;<br>I will, however, be completely done after this one. I have no other ideas to add, but if you enjoy the way I write Sherlock and John, I'm sure I can think of some new story to write when I catch the inspiration. I really do love writing these two and their bickering, so it's very likely I will write more of them if I can think of a "plot."  
>Thanks again for your nice comments! I really appreciate the feedback~ 3<strong>

That night, Sherlock remained wide awake for countless hours, this time hunched over his desk. His dark eyes were glazed over with thought and the expression on his face was blank enough to seem like his conscious was in a completely different world. He had spent so long thinking about what John had told him that his own mind seemed to have stopped working; the mind of the infamous Sherlock Holmes had been turned into useless mush. It wasn't until nearly two o'clock in the morning when his forehead had befriended the wooden desk below him and allowed him to drift into a soft slumber. That slumber, however, was disturbed promptly when the door to his office was flung open and a man stumbled in.

"Holmes!" he heard a familiar voice shout out his name, causing him to bolt upright in his chair.

Sherlock, discombobulated from sleep, frantically looked around for the source while blinking rapidly to wake himself up. His gaze fell upon the very man he had spoken to earlier that day, and instant befuddlement came across him. John was pointing an accusing finger at the detective, his lips moving soundlessly as if trying to find words. The usually "prim and proper" gentleman now had a rather distorted appearance, and as he walked, his steps were clumsy. Sherlock had cleared from his initial spot as his friend approached, brows furrowing when the man groggily fell against the desk and sent several papers fluttering to the floor.

"Watson, I really wish you wouldn't make yourself present in my room when you've been drinking," Sherlock said, yet was watching with legitimate interest on his face over the prospect of a drunken John Watson.

"No! You listen to _me,_ Holmes," the man spat, his voice slurred as he clutched the table to hold himself up.

"My ears are attentive, dear Watson." Sherlock raised a brow at his friend and lit his pipe, puffing silently while he waited for a response.

"I will be marrying Mary," John declared boldly with a raised chin.

"Yes, you made that clear."

"_You_ won't be doing a _thing_ about it, understand? You can't just go around… pushing yourself all up in my face… getting in the way…"

"I don't believe I ever said I'd get in your way," Sherlock commented nonchalantly. "I _won't_ be in your way once it's all done-"

"You'll always be in the way!" John shouted and suddenly stood upright. "You're like this annoying little pest that won't leave me alone no matter _what_ I do!"

The detective inclined his neck indignantly and turned away to look out at the sky blanketed with shadows. "I admit that I take you with me on a lot of cases, but you've never complained about them before," he replied, then added in an undertone, "You actually seem to somewhat enjoy yourself."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" John made his way toward Sherlock, again, falling against various pieces of furniture as he walked. "You—You are _constantly_ in my head and I _can't_ get you out! You just… use your voodoo to make me completely lose my mind and constantly pull me in… make me unable to think clearly..."

"Well, you've definitely lost your mind if you think I'm into any sort of dark magic," he said with a huff. "It's even scarier that you believe in such things, dear Watson."

When John had finally reached Sherlock, he began to fall forward again, but the other man caught him by his forearms and attempted to haul him to his feet. John hastily placed his hands on his partner's shoulders to help push himself up, then took the chance to shake Sherlock with violent desperation. "Why are you putting me through this?"

"Perhaps it'd be best if you sat down-"

What seemed to be out of nowhere, Sherlock felt an odd sensation against his lips, one that caused the pipe within his hand to fall to the floor. John Watson's face was right in front of his, the man's brows furrowed and his eyes closed tightly. In that moment, the detective finally realized what was happening. He would've instinctively pulled away from the kiss if John hadn't done so before him, leaving both men simply staring at each other in stunned silence.

Sherlock's lips parted to speak, but he was once again cut off when John moved back in, this time planting small kisses onto the detective's cheek bone. He tilted his head to the side as it happened, his eyebrows coming together with confusion. "John," the man murmured softly, finding that his breath had left him. Sherlock didn't make any recoiling movements as it all was happening. He remained completely still, much too shocked to react while, deep within his mind, he was somewhat enjoying the contact.

After trailing over Sherlock's jaw line, John locked his lips with the detective's for a second time. This time, he was much less hesitant and much more forceful with the action. Sherlock felt himself almost fall backward from the unexpected intensity of it, but kept himself upright and uncertainly joined in. The fact that Sherlock had begun to contribute only encouraged the intoxicated man even more, for his hands suddenly came together at the front of Sherlock's shirt and began to hastily unbutton it. At this point, the detective's deep brown eyes flung open.

"John," he repeated while placing his hands on his friend's shoulders and gently pushing him away. John's fingers came to a halt in their process, now simply resting on Sherlock's chest. His blue gaze met with his partner's, eyelids starting to droop with exhaustion over what his drunken state had done. He slumped over and fell into Sherlock's ready arms, who then struggled to carry him to the nearby couch.

"You aren't in your right mind, Watson," Sherlock muttered while laying the nearly unconscious man down. "I have a feeling you'll regret any continuing actions, so I'm not going to let you go any further."

John looked like he meant to respond, his mouth making subtle movements, but when his eyes closed and no other sound came from him, Sherlock assumed he was done for the night. He'd allow the man to rest (after making sure he wasn't dead, of course), and dreaded what sort of illness would come in the morning after the consumption of so much alcohol. The doctor would not be very pleasant to deal with.

An exasperated sigh slipped from Sherlock's mouth and he fell into a sitting position alongside the couch, simply staring at his unconscious partner with contemplation. He was sure that the intoxicated man would wake up with little to no memory of what had happened the night before, and was almost positive John would ask about the events. How would he even explain it? _Oh, no worries, Watson. You just kissed me, that's all. _That would be Sherlock's nonchalant approach on most subjects, but this particular situation was far different. But _why_ was it so different from anything else?

The kiss and the actions following it meant nothing- John Watson was drunk and completely out of his mind. So, if it was just an occurrence that came from an intoxicated man, why was Sherlock so bewildered? When a person is drunk, they perform actions that they'd never do otherwise, then forget about it the next day. It was the same with John.

His actions, however, weren't just crazy. They were _psychotic_. Sherlock Holmes never let the oddity of something stop him- drunk or not. John, on the other hand, was an incredibly sensible man; he always tried to keep the best appearance amongst the public and shuddered at the thought of anything ruining his reputation. Sure, a few drinks make a person do weird things. Though, it takes a lot to turn a reasonable man into a completely senseless one. Either Dr. Watson had enough drinks to fill everyone in the pub, or there _was_ some meaning behind the kiss.

Either way, Sherlock felt a tiny smirk tug at his lips upon thinking of how John's _dear_ Mary would react to learning about this. She'd surely knock a few tea trays down as a response. The detective, of course, wouldn't go around announcing the news to the world for fear of getting smothered in his sleep by a mustached doctor, but in a way, he'd cherish what had happened. It was, in fact, the closest he had ever been to John and probably the last time anything of the sort would ever happen. He had received a gesture from his partner that he had wanted subconsciously for so long. Now, the moment had already come and gone.

Sherlock continued to observe his friend for long minutes before finally sinking all the way down to the floor. He rested in his side, folding one arm under his head as a pillow and staring off across the messy room. His mind would've continued to wheel with thoughts if exhaustion hadn't so abruptly come over him. Sleep pulled down at his eyelids until they were shut, and it was only moments later that his conscious mind drifted off to let dreams take over.

The next morning, the detective was rudely awakened by the unappetizing sound of vomiting from the other side of the room, and he sat upright to see his previously intoxicated friend bent over a basin. Sherlock's eyebrows met his hairline while letting out a long sigh, recollecting all that had happened in the middle of the night. It, indeed, wasn't just some twisted dream his mind had tricked him with.

"Go right ahead, Watson. It's not like I was going to use that for anything important," he called across the room and ran a hand through his dark hair. "I will very much enjoy the stench of regurgitation in that washbowl for the rest of its days."

John lifted his head enough for his face to be visible, unsteadily twisting his neck to look over at his partner with a stare that could kill. The doctor looked absolutely awful, his face completely pale and contrasting against the circles of exhaustion under his eyes. His entire body was stiff and trembling without any sign of letting up. It was, in fact, the worst Sherlock had ever seen him, though expected after how he acted earlier that morning.

"Don't be rude. I wasn't the one who told you to go out and drink more than a parched horse," he murmured and pushed himself to his feet. "What would your future fiancé say about this behavior? I don't believe she wants to marry a drunk."

The doctor's head disappeared behind the brim of the basin, again, causing Sherlock to turn away and step toward an armchair upon which his violin was resting. He snatched the instrument from the spot and took its place, now holding it on his lap and absentmindedly plucking at the strings. His gaze remained averted from John- at least until the man finally was able to speak.

"Mary-" John started, spluttering slightly in his speech, "-won't be aware of this little incident." He clutched the large bowl tightly in his hands and seemed to wince before continuing. "Even if she learns of it… it's no big deal… only a one-time thing…"

"Very well," Sherlock replied shortly. "Though, didn't you say that about gambling at one point?"

The detective chose to ignore the glare he received and instead began to play high-pitched notes on his violin with the bow. A concentrated look seemed to be on his face as he played, not noticing (more like _choosing_ not to notice) John's discomfort with the sound until the man let out a loud groan. "Holmes," he moaned and visibly shuddered. "My headache is bad enough. For Heaven's sake, stop."

"I believe this is my room, dear Watson. Not only have you destroyed it in your drunken stupor dreadfully early this morning, but now you are emptying the contents of your stomach onto it, as well. Giving you a bigger headache isn't the worst that I can do."

"I am not throwing up all over your room," John replied firmly. "I chose to be _considerate_ despite feeling horrible and actually went across the room to a container. I could've easily just gotten sick on you, if that's what you would've preferred."

"You might as well have," Sherlock countered and set his violin aside. "Since my room is going to have a horrible stench, anyway."

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you." John looked pathetically at his partner with furrowed brows. "It's not like you're ever an inconvenience to me."

"Good to hear, Watson. Your apology is grudgingly accepted."

Deliberate silence followed the comment in which John glared with intense irritation at Sherlock before he looked away and leaned back against a dresser behind him. He appeared almost dead in his position- chin dipped, skin still a sickly color, eyes glazed over. However, when his lips made the smallest movements, it was proof that he was still a living organism.

"What even happened last night, may I ask?"

"Technically, it was this morning. Not too long after two o'clock, actually."

"Whatever. I don't care _when_ it happened- _what_ happened?"

"It's not already obvious?" Sherlock raised a brow at his companion, taking a moment to light a pipe he discovered on a table beside him and puff at it gently. "You came in drunk, yelled at me for a bit, then collapsed."

"What did I yell at you for? The usual?"

"It was quite peculiar, John, but I'm not going to worry you with it. Don't want to get that brain of yours hurting with too much thought."

John's nose wrinkled slightly, whether it was over Sherlock's comment or another wave of sickness. He brought his head up and laid it back against the dresser, cringing when he set it against the wood a bit too abruptly. It took a moment for him to get over the increased ache in his head.

"What did I say to you, Holmes?"

"Tell me, Watson- do you believe what people say about the most honest people being children and those who are drunk?"

"I—what?" John squinted with confusion and lightly shook his head over the sudden question.

"Do you think when people are drunk, they are the most honest? It's a simple yes or no question, Watson. Can you not handle it in your current state?"

"I don't know," he sighed with annoyance. "Sure... I-"

"Brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed with the same clarity and excitement he got over solving a case. "Then your actions _were_ meaningful."

The detective suddenly leapt to his feet and briskly walked over to John's side. "I believe I'll head out for a morning walk, dear Watson. I have, indeed, been in my room for awhile, and, as my doctor, you told me it's good to get fresh air."

"Wait-" John said groggily. "Wait, Holmes… you didn't answer my question-"

"There'll be plenty of time to talk later, don't you agree? I have far too much energy to simply sit here and watch you vomit as I explain things."

"Sherlock, you never go on walks-"

"Yes, very odd, isn't it? I guess I'm just never in the proper mood. Don't you worry, though." The detective leaned down, abruptly grabbed John's chin in his hand, then planted a kiss on his partner's cheek. "I'll get Nanny to tend to you while I'm gone. Leaving you alone would be absolutely uncivil of me."

A look of complete bewilderment was now plastered on John's face- a hint of disgust shadowing it from the kiss he had just received. When Sherlock straightened back up and headed off toward the door, he gained enough sense to call out to him. "Holmes! What on _Earth_ did I say to you?"

"Later, Watson."

"HOLMES!"

"Get some rest, Watson. You won't be able to handle the truth at this point in time."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Sherlock cast a smirk over his shoulder as he stepped out the door and caught the same confused expression on John's face as he left. The detective energetically descended the steps, still puffing lightly at his pipe. Despite the doctor's lack of knowledge over the situation that had occurred in his intoxicated state, a strange feeling of hope had filled Sherlock's veins after their conversation. Obviously, John had agreed to his suspicions concerning a person's honesty when drunk to get Sherlock to shut up, but that set up the perfect trap for the detective to meddle with.

He had performed flawless actions to leave John Watson in a puzzled mindset. Already, the doctor had been frustrated with not knowing what had happened, but by drawing it out even more, the curiosity intensified. Then, to make it even more troublesome, Sherlock had planted the most nonchalant kiss on his partner's cheek, and left without any explanation. If he knew John as well as he thought, the doctor would be sitting up there right now, contemplating what it all meant and not letting up until he found the answer. Just to mess with him even more, Sherlock was leaving the house and wasn't planning on returning anytime soon to relieve his friend of the torture. It wouldn't be fun otherwise.

Just as the clever man had thought, John Watson remained in the room as his comrade left, looking completely stunned and at loss of what to do. He raised a hand to the cheek Sherlock's lips had made contact with and held it there for the longest time. The detective's words continued to circle through his head without any faltering, his contemplation over what had all happened beginning its course. This case, however, would be one he'd have to figure out without Sherlock there to assist him. Sherlock had set the board. Now, it was up to him to move the pieces. The difficulty of the game merely depended on how much of himself John was willing to accept.


End file.
